Finding a Place
by teaholic
Summary: One shot that got away from me. Sherlock struggles to find where he belongs and how to avoid being bored (and all the problems that leads to). Written in third person, more from Mycroft's point of view - Kidlock through adult, almost to series.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This was just a short scene that got out of hand. Sorry for the short chapters, especially in the beginning. Story is finished though and I'll get them posted as I type them.**

CHAPTER ONE

Thirteen year old Mycroft Holmes climbed into the waiting car, joining his younger brother after school, grateful for the Christmas break. He enjoyed school at times, but he'd had enough studying and coursework; the time to relax would be much appreciated. As he slid into the back seat, he noticed Sherlock had been crying again. He tried so hard, but Sherlock had struggled through his first year of school so far. Sherlock's sobs had faded into an occasional sniffle, but his eyes were still red and his cheeks streaked with tears.

"You okay, little brother?" he asked quietly. Sympathy had never been his strongest suit, but to a point he could empathize with Sherlock. He had eventually managed to hide it, to act 'normal' enough people didn't judge him so quickly, but poor Sherlock said everything that came to mind, acted on impulse and reaped the consequences later. He had yet to learn to separate himself from the bullying and name calling; he took it all very personally. As a result, going to school day after day with people who didn't understand him had become his own personal hell.

Sherlock sniffed and nodded, curling himself into a little ball on the backseat. "I'll be fine," he answered shakily.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Mycroft walked down the hallway toward his brother's room one last time before bed. It had been a particularly hard week for Sherlock at school and it was the first time their parents had left home without them for a weekend away. Of course, there were other people in the house, but there was something about having your parents there. It always made one feel... safe.

He peered through the partially opened door, at first glance thinking Sherlock was already asleep, then he caught the tremor of his left arm, followed by him swatting at some invisible pest above him.

"Sherlock?"

The younger boy sat bolt upright, a terrified look on his face. Slowly it faded and he resumed his languid lounge against the heap of pillows on his bed.

"Are you okay?"

He looked pale and clammy. Abruptly his face scrunched into a pained expression and he rushed into the adjoining bathroom, barely making it before he was sick.

"You're not feeling well I take it. Want some tea? Or ginger ale?"

He shook his head and laid down there on the cold tile floor. "Never again."

"What's never again?" Mycroft asked, trying to piece his brother's symptoms together so he could diagnose the problem.

"Nutmeg."

"Nutmeg?"

"Couple kids at school. Talking about nutmeg. It can make you relax and feel so good..."

"God, Sherlock, you're high."

"Mostly it makes you feel really sick."

Mycroft left to fetch some tea and biscuits, bringing an extra blanket back when he returned a few minutes later.

He wrapped his brother in the blanket and coaxed him into taking a few sips of the hot drink. Poor Sherlock.

"It's going to be a long night."

Ӂ

Mum and dad were back for breakfast Sunday morning, but Sherlock didn't make it down.

"Where's your brother?" Mummy asked, absently adding too much pepper to her eggs.

"He wasn't feeling well."

"Oh. Maybe I should call the doctor then."

"I'm sure he's fine. I think it was just something he ate," Mycroft said vaguely.

"I could go check on him, see if he wants me to send up anything."

"I did just before coming down to breakfast," Mycroft covered. Sherlock was much better, the symptoms of his high nearly gone, but he didn't want to take any chances that their parents figure it out.

More berating wasn't going to help, and Sherlock made it fairly obvious he wasn't planning any more nutmeg binges anytime soon.

"Alright," his mother sighed resignedly. "Shame. I was thinking we could go to a movie or something as a family."

Mycroft picked at his food and managed a couple more bites before excusing himself from the table.

"Have you ever thought about homeschooling, or hiring a private tutor?" he asked out of the blue.

"I don't know, why you ask, dear?"

"I just thought Sherlock might do a little better. He has a hard time concentrating sometimes."

That wasn't entirely true. Mycroft wondered when he had started lying to his parents so much. Sherlock could concentrate fine – getting along with others was an entirely different question though.

"I'm sure he'll be fine. It's only his first year. There's a lot to adjust to, but he will have to sooner or later."

Sooner or later he'd have to. For Sherlock's sake, he hoped it was sooner.

He took an extra mug of tea and headed back upstairs to his brother.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

When Mycroft left for university he knew he had lost Sherlock's trust. He was leaving him, he understood, but it wasn't like he had much choice.

Sherlock hardly ever came home crying anymore, but that didn't mean he was managing any better, Mycroft knew. He had few, if any, friends, was often in trouble with his teachers, and usually had at least one fight a term. Their parents had tried different schools, tried punishment for misbehaving, and even rewarding him when all seemed well, but it made no difference.

"I'm just a phone call away if you need me," he reminded, getting ready to leave.

Sherlock was silent.

"I know it's hard, but you'll make it. It gets better."

The younger brother turned to glower at him, their silent language turned against him. _You're abandoning me. No one else understands and you're leaving!_

"All you have to do is pick up the phone."

_But you won't __**be**__ here._

"I'll miss you."

Sherlock turned back to experimenting with the fowl smelling liquid on his desk, ignoring his brother.

Mycroft didn't have to say anything, it was never about what he said. It was being there. It was understanding. He was the one person on his side when his parents were cross, or the teacher didn't like his life story being shared with the class. He noticed things other people didn't seem to. It was overwhelming at times, sometimes he couldn't keep it to himself, sometimes he just liked to show off, to look clever. Sometimes people liked it, thought he had a gift, most of the time they thought he was obnoxious and arrogant. What exactly was it that made the difference? Why couldn't he shut it off and forget things? To be totally unaware of so many things that went on around him like everyone else? Why couldn't he be normal?

Mycroft took his bag and left the room without another word. He almost wished he could stay. Nothing would change, he knew. Sherlock would be the same, but at least he would have someone to confide in when things were bad.

Sherlock tried to pretend he didn't notice Mycroft's absence. He had experiments in various states of decay throughout his room, enough to keep him busy for a while, and it wasn't like he'd never see his brother again. At times he wondered if he even wanted to. The logical part of him knew Mycroft had his own life, goals to reach, a career ahead of him. The other part couldn't understand how he could leave, how he would cope.

Sherlock sipped his Jolt cola, a regular staple these days, and tried to focus on the task at hand, but his thoughts raced, unwilling to be controlled.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Mycroft entered his room late one evening, tired and ready for bed. He flipped on the lights briefly, intending to make sure his things were ready for class in the morning when he realized he wasn't alone.

"Turn them off."

He paused, surprised he had an unexpected visitor.

"The lights – off."

He did as he was told, recognizing his younger brother's voice, and walked through the darkness toward his bed where Sherlock had made himself comfortable.

"You aren't supposed to be here."

"Well I'm here anyway."

"Why? What brings you... so far from home?" Sherlock knew he wasn't supposed to be here, and Mycroft doubted their parents knew he had come here despite the time it would have taken him to travel.

"I need a favour."

A favour? His little brother hardly talked to him anymore, much less ask for anything.

Christmas had been terrible. Sherlock had been moody, interspersed with violent outbursts, and it was painfully obvious he wasn't even getting along with his parents particularly well. He hardly ever joined them for meals, and mum was understandably concerned. It ended with her sending him up to surreptitiously check Sherlock's room for any thing 'inappropriate' and to hopefully get a better idea what the young adolescent spent so much time alone in his room doing.

Mycroft was appalled at the state of his room, but the only thing Sherlock seemed in danger of was rotting his teeth with the vast amount of soda he was consuming. Finally, Sherlock had ushered him out, proclaiming his desire to never see him again.

So how did he end up here?

"I need to stay with you for a couple weeks."

"You're not even supposed to be here." He flipped the lights back on. "What did you-" he stopped mid sentence, taking in his brother's state.

"You're high," he stated flatly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A little. Now can you please turn the damned lights off, they're giving me a headache."

"Are you trying to get me kicked out right before I graduate? You aren't supposed to be here. You certainly shouldn't be high. And no. I won't let you mope around here while you finish binging on whatever it is you're on, then go home to out parents and pretend everything is fine!"

"They know."

"They what?" Mycroft was getting uncharacteristically flustered. Mildly amusing under normal circumstances, but in this instance just added too many words to the conversation.

"They caught me coming in one night while they were supposed to be away. I was high, they were upset. Now they think I'm a junkie and need to go to rehab."

"Perhaps they're right."

"I'm not an addict, and I'm not going to rehab. That's why I need to stay with you."

"So we can lie to them together? Sounds like a grand plan. Go to rehab, get clean, and move past this. What could even drive you to this in the first place?"

"I was bored. Really, Mycroft, you can't tell me you didn't see this coming. People fill their minds with so much useless information, their conversations so pointless. I can't go on pretending to be interested when I can work out what they are going to say long before they ever say it. I need something to occupy my mind, to help me focus, and help my body keep up with my brain.

"Caffeine helps, but it takes a lot. When I can get my hands on it, cocaine helps more. It eliminates the boredom and helps me concentrate. It's as simple as that."

"So you think self-medicating with illegal drugs is the answer?"

"It's worked so far."

"I'm not getting kicked out for a junkie. I know I've covered for you before, and I probably shouldn't have, but at least then it wasn't anything illegal. You've let it get out of hand."

"I'm not a junkie. I don't even take coke that often. I'm just bored. Rehab isn't going to fix that."

"Is that what you told mother?"

"Not exactly."

"You told her you were going to rehab, didn't you? Knowing full well that you never intended to go," Mycroft supplied.

"I'm not going. If you don't want me, I'll find somewhere else to stay."

"You're only fifteen, Sherlock, where are you going to go?"

The younger man shrugged. "Wherever I have to."

Mycroft sighed, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand. "Fine. You can stay. But no drugs, and stay out of sight. No one else needs to know you're here."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Graduation day. Finally. Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. Classes usually weren't too difficult, but the stress of coursework, tests, and trying to keep an eye on Sherlock the past six weeks was taxing. After today, he could focus on his career, a promising job that would eventually lead to a high position in the government was already procured. Sherlock seemed to be doing well, what little he had seen of him, and there was no indication he'd been anywhere near drugs since his arrival. Perhaps they could enjoy a nice celebratory dinner after the graduation ceremony with the family. It seemed a bit ordinary, but it would be nice to get to celebrate the end of school and Sherlock's completion of rehab, even if he'd never actually gone.

Where was Sherlock anyway? For the most part, he could blend in well enough with the other uni students to not be noticed, but graduation parties weren't really his thing. Honestly, he'd expected Sherlock to be holed up in his room most of the day.

Mycroft began to pack his belongings, folding clothes into his trunk and putting the few practical items he'd brought into boxes and setting them near the door.

The afternoon wore on and gradually everything was packed away, leaving only the bedding and Sherlock's belongings which had been stowed under the bed to pack.

Hoping Sherlock had moved past his experimenting stage, Mycroft reached under the bed and began to pull out the myriad of things stored there. First, there was a battered brown suitcase with several changes of clothes shoved carelessly inside. Sloppy, but nothing unexpected. Next, he pulled out four empty soda cans – all Jolt cola. He briefly wondered how his brother could lounge around the way he often did after consuming so much sugar and caffeine. He must go through at least three or four a day. Not to mention skinny. If anyone else mainlined sugar all day then laid around, they'd be bigger than a house, but not Sherlock. Then again, maybe that was because he didn't eat half the time. He'd always had strange eating habits no one could explain.

Almost finished, Mycroft reached for the last item, a small wooden box tucked into the far corner. Curious, he opened it, hoping he wouldn't find some forgotten half-rotted experiment. Instead, he was faced with something far worse.

A spoon, needles, and syringes were all carefully tucked into the box along with a small package of powdery white substance. It didn't take a genius to figure out what it was for. How long it had been there was a better question. Where was Sherlock now? was another good one.

Hiding the box amongst the other belongings until he could dispose of it, he pushed his brother's items back under the bed and went for the phone.

Ӂ

Where would Sherlock go? There were only so many people he could trust to find Sherlock quietly, and a lot of places he could go. He caught a cab and headed toward the not so good area of the city, hoping he wouldn't find Sherlock there, but knowing it was a reasonable place to start.

Mycroft checked in at several restaurants, hoping someone had seen his brother, walked the surrounding blocks, and checked in every ally, but the missing teen was no where to be found.

Darkness was setting in and if he didn't hurry, he'd miss his own graduation ceremony. How could he sit still for a couple of hours knowing Sherlock could be in danger though? There would be no hiding the truth from their parents when they realized their son had failed to attend his own graduation, but none of that seemed to matter.

He caught another cab, carefully watching the streets on the way back for any sign of his brother. None came.

He was nearly back when his pager beeped. He checked it immediately revealing a message from a fellow intern he had employed on the manhunt for Sherlock Holmes.

The cabbie stopped at the next payphone, and he called Ian, hoping he had some good news.

"You have something?"

"Yeah," the voice on the other end didn't sound too happy to say it though.

"Where is he?"

"Barts Hospital. He was hit by a car."


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

The cab made good time toward the hospital, but it wasn't nearly fast enough. Mycroft paid the cabbie and made his way inside, heading to the main desk to find out where his brother was. He didn't have to wait long for an answer though.

"I'm fine," bellowed a voice down the hall, a clattering following as things hit the floor. "Get off!"

Another crash followed before Sherlock burst through the doors, staggering toward the exit.

"Never mind," Mycroft murmured. "I think I've found him."

He followed Sherlock out, guiding him away from the street.

"What happened?" he demanded, not knowing whether he should be grateful his brother didn't appear too badly injured or angry he'd ruined the day and was obviously high again.

"I'm fine," he tried to shrug him off.

"You're not fine. Ian told me you got hit by a car."

"I didn't meant to... thought about it.. I stumbled, couldn't get of the way in time." Sherlock ran his hand through his mess of curl, the fight quickly fading.

"Come on, let's get you out of here." There was no point in fighting about it now, and he needed the younger man home before he collapsed.

Ӂ

_Didn't mean to... thought about it... _ Did that mean Sherlock had considered purposefully walking in front of that car, that he considered death a better option? He shuddered at the thought. It was so out of hand. All this, he had enabled it. It was his fault. He should've forced him to rehab last time. This time he'd make Sherlock understand. Sherlock's determination to destroy himself would be met by an equal determination to keep him from that very thing.

But what is he really was bored? He claimed this was all due to boredom. Rehab couldn't fix that. He might break the habit for a while, but it would be too easy to fall back into the same routine.

Mycroft set down the file he'd been holding, knowing his plan wouldn't work. He'd been going to show Sherlock the crime scene photos, the truth to where his habit would likely lead him. His brother wasn't stupid though, far from it. He knew the effects, he'd seen the drug dens personally, and he'd chosen that anyway.

It was late. Tomorrow would bring plenty of questions and, of course, he'd have to come up with a good excuse for why he missed the graduation ceremony. He would go to bed and deal with the problems then.

Ӂ

Sherlock woke early, his left side more than a little sore from the previous day's accident. It'd been so tempting to stay at the hospital, but given what had happened, the pain he'd been in, there was a good chance they'd give him morphine. Not a good idea when he still have cocaine coursing through his veins. And he couldn't mention that, obviously.

He turned slowly and sat up, sliding off the bed. The unfamiliar flat was quiet, and barely furnished, he noted. Must be where Mycroft was planning to move. Probably a better idea than trying to sneak back into his university room.

Sherlock walked silently down the hall, taking in his new surroundings. He started to fill a glass with water in an attempt to rid himself of the cottonmouth feeling he'd woken up with, but caught sight of a stack of files and decided to see if there was anything interesting. Mycroft wouldn't approve, he knew, not that he cared. After the first couple pictures he saw a theme and realized he probably _was_ supposed to see these. The final picture caught his eye, something was different about that one, it was too familiar. He set it down, but knew there was something wrong, if only he could figure out what.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mycroft woke later than usual, stretching his tired muscles, not used to the previous day's exertion looking for his brother. Sherlock was often up early, but Mycroft wouldn't have been surprised if he'd slept in, given the previous day's events. Instead, he found the extra bedroom empty. Traveling to the kitchen, he found it also devoid of Sherlock, and began to worry he'd made a run for it.

He quickly noted the pile of crime scene files had been disturbed, and moved to straighten them, coming across a hastily written note where the last one had been.

"Wrong."

It was far too early cryptic messages from Sherlock, he thought as he put the kettle on to boil and made toast.

While he was waiting, he put in a call to Ian. This time he was prepared. Sherlock wasn't going to slip away that easily.

"He's near where you looked him him yesterday," Ian supplied, knowing it wasn't what his boss wanted to hear. "He went in about twenty minutes ago. Want me to send someone in?"

"No," Mycroft answered. This one he would handle himself. "Just keep an eye on him, and let me know if he leaves."

He poured the tea and spread jam on his toast, getting ready on autopilot as he considered what he was going to do with Sherlock. He had seemed to be doing so well these last few weeks. What had happened since yesterday?

Finally he pulled on a coat and was about to leave the flat when Ian called again.

"He's coming back."

"Back here?"

"Yes sir, it looks that way. Caught a cab about five minutes ago."

Ӂ

Sherlock entered through the door he'd apparently left unlocked wearing the previous day's clothes, ignoring Mycroft's questioning look.

"I need to borrow your phone."

Spotting it, he reached for it without waiting for permission.

"Wait," Mycroft blocked him. "What were you up to this morning?"

"Relax, it wasn't drugs. You know that. Although, I'd suggest hiring less obvious surveillance."

"What _was _it?"

"The police have got it wrong." He pulled a folded photo out of his pocket, the same one from the file Mycroft had left in the kitchen. "She didn't overdose. She didn't even take morphine."

"They ran blood tests, Sherlock. There was a lethal dose of morphine in her system. Just because she used a different drug before doesn't mean she couldn't have changed things ups, misjudged, taken too much..."

"She didn't. Maggie was always careful, never shared needles, never mixed drugs, and never took morphine. She's allergic to it. Someone killed her, and I'm going to figure out who."


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Mycroft entered the flat late that evening after an exhausting day at work. Sherlock was back, it didn't take him long to deduce, not that it would take anyone long.

Paperwork littered every imaginable flat surface. Maths homework and half written English essays covered the counter, a peculiar smelling experiment stewed in a petri dish in the kitchen, and various crime scene photos were pinned to the wall in the living room. Notes from every subject left a scattered trail down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom. And he'd only been back one day!

Following the time rehab would have ended, had he gone, Sherlock returned to their parents' home and had stayed for several weeks. Apparently he had convinced them to let him stay with Mycroft though, or at least he hoped his younger brother had at least mentioned it before his return to the London flat.

"Sherlock?"

A muffled replied came from the bedroom down the hall.

Mycroft followed the trail down the hallway, sidestepping several half full cups of tea and the kettle sitting in the middle of the floor.

"You're back then," it was a statement rather than question.

"When's dinner?"

"You actually going to eat something then?" His brother's eating habits were really anything but habitual; he'd grown more accustomed to _not_ having him join him at the table.

"I got it. I figured it out."

"Figured what out? The cause of the disaster in the kitchen, perhaps?"

"Maggie's murder. I was able to get a lab student to run some tests for me and trace down where the killer was from. Since the drug was morphine, I figured the killer either knew of her allergy or it was simply easiest to get a hold of, being that it is actually legal and used medicinally. Availability was more likely. A hospital nearby had recently found some morphine to be missing, tracked it down to a man named Harvey Walker who had recently been hired, only to quit unexpectedly a week ago. He matched the killer's profile and eventually confessed to the murder.

"As to the mess, I was doing homework. Apparently, I missed a lot while I was in 'rehab.' I'll tidy up eventually."

"You're staying then?"

"Yeah. Now when's dinner? I'm starved."

Ӂ

Sherlock joined Mycroft for dinner that night and eventually was persuaded to contain his disaster to the bedroom. In fact, he seemed the happiest Mycroft had seen him in a long time. Perhaps solving Maggie's murder gave him purpose, enough to keep him on track and away from his more self-destructive habits for a while.

How long would it last though? he thought cynically. He was not so unlike Sherlock when it came to a low boredom threshold, and people could be so very boring sometimes. That was why he had pursued his current career path. He could have authority and autonomy, but most importantly it was actually a bit challenging at times.

Sherlock had no patience for politics however. The mental exercise wasn't enough for him; he needed to physically be involved in the process as well. The satisfaction of success and his resumed interest in the school's chemistry program might keep him occupied for a while, but there needed to be something else, a more permanent solution.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Mycroft pulled his coat closer, the wind making the otherwise comfortably cool Autumn evening a little too cold. Walking home had seemed like a good idea - or was it simply feeling guilty for eating too much at dinner? But now he was wishing he'd caught a cab. Oh well, almost home now.

As he turned onto his street, he caught sight of a young woman frantically looking for something. Her heavy eye makeup was smeared, and judging by the short dress that occasionally glimmered beneath the coat that was too big for her, she'd been at a party. Drinking too, he mentally added as she stumbled in his direction.

" 'Scuse me, mister." She pulled the coat back over her bare shoulder and took another few steps before continuing.

Boyfriend's maybe? Too big, men's style... No. She wasn't particularly attached to it, just for warmth then. Definitely men's though, looked just like his brothers.

"Mycroft Holmes? Do you know him? Where he lives?"

"Why do you ask?" he queried suspiciously.

"I need... I was going to call, but don't have a phone number. It's about his brother."

"What about Sherlock?" concern mounted inside him.

"You know him?"

"Yes, I'm his brother. I'm Mycroft. Now what is it?"

"Just wanted to make sure he got home okay. He left early, was a bit not right."

Mycroft picked up his pace and hurried into the building.

At first glance, all seemed well in the flat. Moving into the kitchen, however, he found it was just the opposite.

Broken shards of a shattered cup crunched beneath his feet, a bloody trail leading toward the sink. A scarlet hand print smeared down the front of the cabinet, leading back to the floor where Sherlock lay unconscious.

"Call an ambulance," he told the mystery girl who he just realized had followed him in.

Mycroft swept aside the broken glass and knelt in the floor beside his brother. He was cold, too cold, could be partly due to his lack of a coat, but that wasn't the only reason. Gently, he rolled the younger man to his side, noting the rapid pulse, and catching sight of the livid purple bruise on his cheek, contrasting against his pale skin.

"On their way," the girl told him. "Could I lie down a minute?" she asked, wobbling slightly. "I really don't feel so good either."

"Sure," Mycroft answered absently. He really didn't need anyone else passing out in his kitchen.

"Oh Sherlock, what've you done?"

He was breathing, Mycroft checked, and stepped away briefly to retrieve a blanket. He draped it over him and continued to try making his brother comfortable until the paramedics arrived.

Minutes later, the ambulance arrived, the paramedics deftly loading the unconscious man onto a gurney.

At the hospital, he was immediately taken back, the doctors accessing and treating his condition. All there was left was to wait. To wait and pray everything would be okay.

An hour and countless minutes passed, time seeming to stand still, before the doctor let him see his brother.

Combined drug intoxication. It sounded bad. It was. But it didn't sound as bad as it looked. The cuts on Sherlock's hand and arm had been cleaned and bandaged, but his pallor seemed even worse. His usual restless energy contrasted his current deathly stillness. He didn't even look peaceful, although he probably couldn't feel anything in his current state.

Mycroft knew he should call their parents, yet he couldn't drag himself away from the bedside, afraid something would happen in his absence.

The laboured breaths were a strange comfort, noticeable enough he knew Sherlock was still breathing. It was touch and go for a while, the doctor had said. He was stable for now, would probably pull through, although nothing was a guarantee, but they wouldn't know the true damage until he woke up.

"Why do you always come back to this?" the question came only as a whisper. He knew better, the damage drugs could do, why did he have to fall back into the same trap again and again?

He had to call. They'd be disappointed, upset, worried, but what if things didn't turn out well? They'd never forgive him. Finally, he left the room to phone his parents and let them know the mess Sherlock had gotten himself into.

A seven minute call was all it took to explain what little he knew, reduce his parents to tears, and finally excuse himself to return to his brother's bedside.

It would be fine. Sherlock was strong, he'd pull through, he told himself over and over. By the time he returned to the high dependency unit, he almost believed the words. At least until he saw the crash trolley being wheeled into Sherlock's room.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

A rare tear traveled down Mycroft's cheek as he kept vigil over his brother's prone form. They often didn't get along, to the outside observer their relationship might be considered as indifferent, but he really did care. Sherlock could be a thorn in his side at times, but he'd always be there to put the pieces back together when it all went wrong.

This was the worst though. There was nothing he could do. As much as he liked to think so, standing by the bed did nothing to aid Sherlock's recovery. He would have to fight for himself. His body would have to rid itself of the toxins he'd ingested, and there was nothing he or all the British government could do for him.

The doctors were less optimistic after the cardiac arrest he'd suffered. They would do all they could, he'd been reminded more times than he cared to count. Mostly it seemed like a nice way of saying your junkie brother had a bit too much fun and is probably going to die. Sorry. Nothing we can do about it.

Mycroft settled into the uncomfortable chair near the window. He needed to see about bringing what work he could to the hospital. The world continued on somehow even while an individual's world crumbled, and there was no telling how long Sherlock might be there. It could wait until tomorrow though, he told himself. He wasn't going anywhere.

Ӂ

The room was dark, only a faint glow coming from the hallway. Mycroft was half asleep, paperwork piled high on the table bedside him. Everything was exactly the same as it had been two days ago. Except...

There was a quiet cough, rousing Mycroft from his dosing.

"My."

He looked up, unsure if someone had actually started to say his name or if he'd dreamt it.

"Mycroft," the voice repeated several moments later.

"Sherlock?" there was only one other person in the room, it had to be.

"I want a phone."

"What?"

"I want a mobile phone. I could've called earlier."

"Called when? Really? You're unconscious and unresponsive for two days, and the first thing you say when you wake up is that you want a phone?" He was unbelievable.

"Actually, I said Mycroft first."

He rolled his eyes in exasperation. His brother never ceased to surprise him.

"I wasn't feeling well when I left the party. If I had a mobile, I could have called."

"I found you bloody unconscious in my kitchen, Sherlock; your heart stopped. You can't fix that with a phone call!"

"It wasn't my fault."

"Combined drug intoxication, Sherlock, do you know what that is?"

"Obviously. It's pretty self-explanatory." He perked up briefly, although his strength was quickly fading. "Is that what's wrong with me?"

"Yes, Sherlock. That's what happens when you mix too much cocaine with alcohol."

Even through the darkness, Mycroft could see the wheels working, the interested look Sherlock wore as he dropped back against the pillows behind him.

"I believe I've been drugged."


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Start from the beginning."

"Did you bring what I asked for?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yes." Mycroft held the new mobile phone out of reach. "You may have it when you explain what happened that night."

"I figured I'd give it one more try at uni – fitting in – acting _normal_. I went to a party, boring I might add, had a couple drinks. Not much, only two, I think."

"You think?"

"The details are a bit fuzzy. I was passed out in the kitchen floor, if you remember," Sherlock shot back.

"Fine. Two drinks. Continue."

"I started to feel poorly, so I left early. I was just going to go home and sleep it off. I went to the kitchen for a drink and dropped the cup because my hands were so shaky. That's all I remember."

"What about the bruises?" Mycroft prompted.

"Earlier. I had a disagreement with my ex-drug dealer."

Mycroft pulled the phone out of his pocket.

"One more thing. Who's the girl?"

"What girl?"

"The one that followed you home. She was wearing your coat."

"I don't know, just a girl. She was cold, so I let her wear my coat. Must have forgotten it when I left."

Mycroft handed over the mobile phone.

"So how, and why, were you drugged?"

"How should I know?"

"Figure it out."

"It was probably added to my drink. Only people there who knew of my drug history were..." he paused briefly. "No one. No one there knew."

"Obviously someone did," Mycroft supplied. "That, or you're lying."

"I wasn't shooting up in the corner, if that is what you are implying. I wouldn't have bothered going in the first place if that were my plan. I also wouldn't have ended up in the damn hospital, Mycroft, I'm not an idiot!"

"It wouldn't be the first time you let things get out of hand," his brother reminded. He wanted to believe Sherlock, but given his past it was hard to dismiss the idea. "Your high tolerance to cocaine is the only thing that let you get as far as you did, and you still nearly died. Clinically, you did. Do you even realize that?"

Only Sherlock Holmes could invoke such a temper in him, he knew, but he couldn't stand his brother's indifference to something so dangerous. Every time he fell into this trap he'd slipped a little further, become even more distant. This might be his last chance to save Sherlock, and he sure as hell wasn't going to squander it.

"No." Sherlock stated, interrupting the silence that had settled between them.

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were thinking it. I'm not going to rehab," Sherlock refused.

"If I send you, you won't have any choice."

"There's always a choice. I didn't do it, I promise you. You may not understand the reasoning behind it, but I've never lied to you about this, and I never mix drugs and alcohol. It's too unpredictable."

"Then I need something to go on."

"I need coffee, lots of coffee."

"When did you start drinking coffee?"

"Now. Just get me some."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but did as he was asked, reminding himself that without a _very _good explanation Sherlock was going to rehab, whether he liked it or not.

Ӂ

After downing an entire pot of coffee, Sherlock seemed strangely calm. Most people would be beyond jittery by now, but he leaned back against the pillow, eyes closed like he was going to go to sleep, but his mind raced.

"Two drinks – started feeling poorly after the second," he said aloud. "My hands were shaking, felt hot, gave my coat to a girl who promised to return it before she left." He breathed in deeply, the slightest tremor visible in his hands. "Nauseous. I didn't have any money on me, so I started to walk back, felt so sick, could barely stand. Tripped going up the stairs. Thirsty." He absently sipped the nearly empty cup still in his trembling hands. "Someone was following me. I was going to have a cuppa, but I dropped it, shards everywhere, cut myself, loosing consciousness, bleeding a lot, cut must've been deep. Going to wash, fell, vision blurry, need help, can't feel, can't think, can't breathe..." Sherlock's eye flew open and sat bolt upright.

"Did she bring it back? My coat, did she return it?"

"She was still wearing it when I found you," Mycroft answered, realizing what he had done. She was passed out when they left in the ambulance, but he'd left his flat with a drunken stranger for the last two days, God only knew what kind of state it was in now.

"I need to talk to her."

"Now's not the time. I'll deal with it later," Mycroft decided. Hopefully, she was trustworthy, would sleep it off, and lock up on the way out. If not, well, it was probably a little late to do anything about it now.

"No, I think she might know who drugged me."


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sherlock stumbled up the steps to the second storey flat, leaning on his brother as the dizziness had yet to subside.

Mycroft reached the door first, afraid of what he'd find, or rather lack of what he might find, left of his flat. Might as well get it over with.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, Sherlock wavering a footstep behind. Surprisingly, nothing appeared to be missing. In fact, the living room was actually slightly cleaner than they'd left it.

Upon closer inspection, Mycroft found the kitchen to be absent of the glassy shards that had littered the tile floor. Likewise, the bloodstains had been cleaned away.

Sherlock made an uncoordinated attempt down the hall, lost his balance, and was saved from ending up in an ungainly heap in the floor by the very person he sought.

"Grace," the name finally came to him, as she helped him to sit on the edge of his bed.

"Hope you don't mind," she directed her attention to Mycroft. "I wanted to see him home safely. And to return this personally." She handed over the coat she had been wearing. "I was going to wash it, but I knew something wasn't right the other night. That thing you do, I thought maybe you could get some clue off the coat."

"Thank you, yes, I'll do that." Sherlock took the coat, but set it beside him, knowing he wasn't yet at his best. She was about to leave when he belatedly remembered he had wanted to ask her about that night.

"Grace, before you go, do you remember anything? You said you realized something wasn't right. What exactly-"

"You just weren't acting like yourself. There were drugs at the party – I just wanted to make sure you didn't get yourself into too much trouble."

"You knew? Who brought them? Did you see anyone using, or possibly-"

"I wasn't stalking you. Really, I probably wouldn't have even followed you if I thought anyone else would have noticed, but you didn't look like you 'd make it to the door, much less all the way back here. I'm sorry, but I really don't know anything. I wish I did."

Ӂ

It was strange walking into the empty flat late that afternoon. It wasn't all that unusual for Mycroft to not be home, but it was more than that, He would be away the next two weeks on some kind of secret official business. It was fine – he was fine. He had assured his brother of that repeatedly; he wasn't a child anymore that needed a nanny to watch over him.

Yet, tonight he would've actually liked to have someone there. He'd been back to class for a week now, that he could handle. He had recovered pretty well from his near lethal overdose, old news. Today was much worse though. Today he had lost the closest thing to friend he'd had.

He and Grace weren't friends in the usual sense of the word – they didn't hang out much, didn't go see movies together, or even always sit together at lunch. They didn't want to see each other hurt though. She was there to listen if he needed someone to talk to. She didn't make fun of him for being different, didn't continuously lecture him about his no so clean history, and while she may not have totally understood his 'gift' she admired what he could do. He doubted the relationship would have lasted much past university, assuming she did. She'd never mentioned it, but he knew she was terminally ill, and the chronic sleep deprivation, habit of drinking too much, and occasionally experimenting with drugs wasn't likely to improve her condition. Still, he'd thought there would be more warning, that he could prepare for the inevitable.

Caring isn't an advantage. He'd hear Mycroft say those words once, and it certainly seemed true. Caring wouldn't bring her back, wouldn't have kept her from dying, it didn't seem to have any purpose.

Strangely, Mycroft seemed to care about him. It wasn't like he didn't have better things to do than keep an eye on his junkie brother, yet time after time when things got bad he was there. Why? he wondered. Of course, that was what family is supposed to do. But caring didn't change anything, and it certainly wasn't an advantage.


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Something wasn't right. His heart couldn't decide whether to hammer its way through his chest or quit completely. Phone was out of reach, help too far. Breathing was near impossible, and the room around him swayed unsteadily and threatened to fade to permanent darkness.

Ӂ

After collecting his luggage, Mycroft Holmes made his way through the airport and to the waiting black sedan to take him home. It was good to be back in London, back home, and back to familiarity.

Back in country, his mobile picked up a service signal and alerted him he had missed a message. He didn't recognize the number, but listened to the voice mail anyway.

"This is professor Canon. Just wanted you to know Sherlock has missed a lot of class this term. I understand he's had a rough time, but he has missed every class these last two weeks and the review for finals. If he doesn't do well on exams, he won't pass the course."

So Sherlock had been skipping class while he'd been gone, Mycroft mused. So much for the promises to behave.

The car neared his flat and Mycroft prepared to disembark, trying to figure out what he was going to say to Sherlock without sounding like an overbearing parent. The sedan stopped at the kerb and he climbed out, retrieving his luggage from the back.

Ӂ

He pushed the plunger down, euphoric relief from the last hit flooding through his body as everything returned a little closer to normal. He let the syringe fall from his trembling hand to the floor.

He shouldn't have been running them so close together, he knew, but he was fast running out of time before Mycroft returned. And if it hadn't been for the excess stimulant coursing through his veins, he might well have not survived whatever the downer was that had been in the last batch. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't the cocaine he'd been promised. It was much stronger and had the exact opposite of the desired effect.

His theory had been correct, although as he looked at the bag he'd carefully labeled before this experiment began, he found he couldn't quite focus on the writing to make out the name he had marked on it. That would wear off soon enough. For now, he would ride the high and enjoy it before the less pleasurable crash. And what a crash it would be. He hadn't been this high for – the time lines were a bit wobbly at the moment, but maybe never – at least not back to back like this.

Ӂ

Mycroft unlocked the front door and stepped inside, only to be blasted with icy cold air conditioning. He set down his things and called out to Sherlock, but received no answer. A quick look around told him Sherlock had either spent little time home or had stayed in his room. Everything was just as he had left it, and the refrigerator he'd left well stocked for his brother was still full of now spoiled food, meaning Sherlock probably hadn't eaten much of anything either.

He knocked on the door to the bedroom and was greeted with a muffled groan. Mycroft pushed the door open, his gaze falling to the younger man huddled on the bed facing the wall.

"Just thought I'd let you know I was back."

"Welcome back," Sherlock replied, not bothering to roll over and face him.

"Are you okay? Honestly, I was expecting a little more mayhem."

"Been sick."

"I can get you an appointment with the doctor tomorrow."

"I'd rather just sleep it off," Sherlock declined.

"Alright. I'll see you in the morning. Let me know if I can get you anything." With that, he closed the door again and made his way to his own room.


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

By late the next afternoon, all Sherlock had managed to consume was half a cup of tea, which he had promptly thrown up, and he had halfheartedly chewed on a piece of gum for a few minutes. The fever hadn't gone down, the shakiness remained, as had the nausea, and his balance and coordination were pretty rubbish as well. He remained lethargic, hardly ever moving unless it was in an attempt to grab a wastebasket or make it to the bathroom before he was sick.

Mycroft entered the room with a glass of water and a single piece of toast which Sherlock snarled his nose at and refused to eat.

"You need to see a doctor, Sherlock." He watched the other man shift uncomfortably. "I'm going to have Doctor Olson come by," Mycroft announced, "unless there's something else I should know."

Sherlock's pinpoint pupil met his brother's gaze.

"How long have you known?"

"From the moment I walked into a clean flat."

"Look, I'm sorry, Mycroft, but it's not what you think."

Mycroft just shook his head slightly. "You have exams next week you need to do well on or you'll fail the course."

"I'll do it. I'll study. I just..."

"Yeah, you'll figure it out. If not, you're going for a nice long stay at rehab. If you can manage to pass, I think it's time you find a job and something more useful to occupy your time." Somehow, he managed to stay calm as he uttered the ultimatum. The disappointment in his eyes couldn't have been clearer though.

"It was for a case," was all Sherlock could manage to piece together. It was a pitiful excuse. When exactly had solving his drugging by overdosing and nearly killing himself become a case? Why a _case_? Sure, it had purpose behind it all. But this wasn't the only way of getting the answers he sought, not even the quickest. He just sought another excuse to get the fix he desperately felt he needed. It was a mystery, could've been an accident. Why did he have to obsess over it and come up with stupid names for stupid excuses for making stupid decisions?

It was all stupid. He knew it would upset his brother if he found out, would upset his parents if they knew, couldn't be healthy for him, and yet... He'd spent the majority of the last two weeks high on cocaine, shooting up again to avoid the crash. Now he had to face the consequences – terrible withdrawal, disappointed family, and the need to pass a test over knowledge he hadn't learned because he was too busy getting wasted. Maybe rehab would be the best idea. It wasn't good enough though. Mycroft didn't want him to complete a course. He wanted him to find a purpose, to have a reason for facing each day rather than seeking an escape from it. Somewhere beneath it all, so did he. What had started as a way to cope with life had become a consuming desire to escape it. That had to change.

Ӂ

_"I'll do it," _Sherlock said, _"I'll study."_ Sure he could do it if he really focused. Problem was, Sherlock only put that kind of effort into things he really wanted, and Mycroft wasn't so sure he did, And that was all assuming he was at his best. If he couldn't manage to keep down a cup of tea, how was he supposed to spend hours reading and preparing for the biggest test of the year?

Maybe he could persuade the professor to give him some leniency, to delay the exam for a little while. Not every absences this term was his fault, not that he could divulge the true reasoning for his brother's absence. Perhaps what Professor Canon didn't know wouldn't hurt him though.

Still, maybe it would be a good idea to research some detox and rehabilitation centers.


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mycroft knocked on the bedroom door and slowly pushed it open, ready to give his brother the bad news.

Inside, he found Sherlock, still in desperate need of a shower, dozing over his chemistry book, barely touched mug on the table beside him. Poor thing must've been up all night, and there was still much to do, judging by the many pages left in the book, yet Mycroft couldn't bear to wake him from the first restful slumber he'd had since his return.

He was trying to quietly slip back out, when he heard Sherlock stir, his groggy voice breaking the silence.

"I don't want it."

Mycroft looked surprised but said nothing.

"I doubt Professor Canon will want to do me any favours, but even if he does agree to an extension, I won't take it."

"Sherlock."

"I don't need his sympathy – or yours. I'll pass by myself."

"And if you don't?"

"I will. But if I don't, then I guess it's like you said. Rehab."

"You can't get across the room without getting dizzy. I don't see how you're going to do it."

"Me either," he admitted, " I but I have to try."

Ӂ

"Nice to see you again," Professor Canon greeted fifteen minutes ago. Had it really been only fifteen minutes? He had a pounding headache and couldn't focus long enough to get passed number six. Getting a passing grade wasn't looking promising.

Maybe he should have eaten breakfast, he thought as his stomach grumbled in protest. Nothing sounded particularly good, and his stomach was still far too easily upset, but perhaps going the last two days without food hadn't been the most brilliant either. He felt lightheaded and groggy, but there was little he could do about it now. He picked up the pencil before it rolled off the table and attempted once again to reign in his thoughts.

Ӂ

Mycroft entered into the strangely quiet flat to find his brother lounging across the entire sofa, appearing to have moved only inches from his position that morning. It was initially worrying, but Mycroft was pleased to see the younger man's expression did not have the distant euphoric high, nor the somewhat pained and listless look he had walked in on far too many times. That wasn't to say he didn't seem distant though.

"You passed – the test, I mean. You can graduate with your class. You cut it close thought."

Sherlock made no move or sound.

"Sherlock!" he said louder. "Did you hear me?"

"What?" he seemed startled away from another world. "Yes. That's good." Sherlock shifted minutely before changing the subject completely. "I've been invited to go on holiday with our parents. I think distancing myself from London for a while might be a good idea."

"So you're off then."

"Yeah, leave in the morning." He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes, but continued to speak. "Richard Ross. That's who tried to kill me. I've given the police enough then can at least arrest him on possession charges, but having a hard time proving the rest."

"How do you know he's the one?"

"I'd rather not."

"No, I want to hear it. What is it you know that you can't give the police?" Mycroft queried.

"Previous knowledge put him on my suspect list, but I realized the drugging at the party probably wasn't accidental. Two others were sent to hospital from a drug overdose that night as well, both previous users. Grace got me names and what they died of before supposedly overdosing herself. I know accidents happen, but this is too much to be coincidence. I also figured whoever it was would try again. I then bought some cocaine from every dealer I could get access to, labeling each sample and who it was from before taking each to determine the bad batch."

"How do you know it wasn't a mistake? Or that your dealer's source didn't give him bad drugs?"

"You don't last very long as a dealer making mistakes like that," Sherlock answered a little too knowingly. "And what he gave me was designed to kill. I asked for a stimulant, and got a very strong depressant."

"You know, there are better ways of testing these things than using yourself as a human pincushion."

"Yeah, I know. It was stupid, but it's done now."

"Just one more question. If this was 'designed to kill' as you put it, why are you still here?"

"I think you can work that one out for yourself," Sherlock answered sullenly.

Mycroft continued to wait for an answer.

"I took more coke to counteract the depressant properties. Happy? I said it. It isn't pleasant knowing you've just done something that will likely kill you, fighting for each breath, hoping you can get your numb fingers to cooperate long enough to inject more drugs into your system when you've already had too much. The phone was just across the room and I couldn't get to it. I've never felt so helpless and dependent before, and I don't want to be there again. Why the bloody hell do you take so much satisfaction in my saying it?"

He didn't. It broke his heart to see Sherlock so broken and hurting. Knowing that, it startled even him how cold the words came out. "I just want to make sure you know where you stand."


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A month. How had it already been a month? Mycroft replayed the voice mail message on his phone.

"Made it here. We're currently in Florida and our parents have decided to try line dancing. Needless to say, I'm probably staying in and getting room service. Everything is fine. I even met an English lady staying just down the hall. She thinks I'm lonely, and she talks too much, but she makes an excellent cuppa and cookies, much better than the iced tea made from predominately sugar all the restaurants here seem to serve. Anyway, I'll talk to you later. Bye."

That was the last he'd heard from Sherlock until the brief text he'd received early that morning.

"We're back- SH"

Sherlock had sounded content, perhaps even happy when he mentioned whoever the woman was that made tea and cookies, but all he got upon their return was the barest of texts. He really shouldn't expect much more, they hadn't exactly parted well. But Sherlock hadn't said when, or even if, he was coming back, what he would do now, if 'distancing himself from London' had gone well, or if he'd be staying further in the country with with parents.

Yet somehow Mycroft couldn't make his fingers type a coherent reply to the text.

Ӂ

"I'm moving out," Sherlock had barely said hello when he shared the news.

"Back home or-"

"Out on my own. I appreciate what you've done, but I think you were right before. It's time I find myself something more productive to do with my time."

Mycroft nodded. He'd kind of seen it coming, but still had his doubts as to how well it would work. "Living in the city is expensive, but I can help you look for a place if you'd like."

"I have somewhere in mind, and the land lady is willing to give me a deal on rent."

"Have you also found a job to pay said rent?" He'd prompted Sherlock several times in the area, but everything was too boring, ordinary, or dull according to his brother. He had the mind to do great things, but only if he could manage to apply himself.

"I've done better than that. I've invented a new one."

"Invented a new job?"

"Yes. Consulting Detective. When the police are out of their depth, which is most always, they'll consult me."

"You can't just name yourself detective, and the police don't consult-"

"They will," Sherlock interrupted. "And from what I've found, when you supply a case with all the answers, they really can't refuse."

He threw clothes into his worn suitcase, his excitement evident. "There's a new DI – Gavin, or Greg, or Graham - something like that. He wants to impress, but doesn't have the most brilliant team – perfect spot for me."

"What's the address – so I can visit."

"Like you visit our parents?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's 221 Baker Street, not sure if it'll be B or C yet."

Visiting was probably the last thing on Mycroft's mind, but he was going whether Mycroft approved of the arrangement or not, and Mycroft was going to look into it either way – no point in starting an argument. There were sure to be plenty of those to come.


End file.
